more awful than the heat at the present moment cannot well be conceived.  It is as if Philadelphia had said to its friends, “You provide the exposition, and we’ll provide the heat.”  There were carriages placed at our disposal for the opening, and we drove out to the grounds in great style.  We were welcomed at the entrance by some officials and ushered to our seats on the red-hot platform draped with flags.  President Grant then entered, accompanied by all his Ministers.  After the opening speech by the President all the church-bells in the city began ringing, cannons were fired, the orchestra burst forth with national hymns—­“Star-spangled Banner” and “Hail, Columbia.”  People waved handkerchiefs, and the display of patriotism was overpowering.  In coming out, after the President had left the tribune, the crowd filled in after him, and we had to fight our way out as best we could.

[Illustration:  DOM PEDRO Emperor of Brazil.]

The heat, which no thermometer could register—­and there was no shade for the thermometer to register in—­and the crowd were something fearful.  People were almost crushed to death, and those who did the most crushing were the fat policemen, who stood in every one’s way and on every one’s toes and barred the whole procession.  Johan looked like an enormous poppy in his red uniform; the sun blazing through the glass roof almost set him on fire (the diplomats were begged to come in uniform, and that meant coats padded and buttoned up to the chin).  Johan tells fabulous stories of the number of stout old ladies he saved, who all threatened to faint away on his decorations.  He says he carried them bodily through the crowd and deposited them on the grass outside and went back for more.  I was miraculously saved.  I clasped my arms around the fat body of a policeman and whispered endearing words with a foreign accent to the effect that a foreigner who had come there at the invitation of the country ought to be saved at any cost.  He thought so too, and was very kind and sympathetic, but as I clung to his padded coat and felt his scorching buttons I wondered whether it were better to die crushed than to suffer suffocation.  However, we were all saved; even Johan’s chamberlain key clung to his back, and his decorations actually stayed in their places, which I think was wonderful, considering the stout ladies.  My dress left a good deal of itself behind—­only the front breadth held it onto my person; the back breadths were trampled on as far up as people could trample and were dirty beyond words.

A large dinner was prepared for us, where patriotic toasts were drunk galore.

We went out to the grounds the next day and rolled about in what they call “rolling-chairs,” and had things explained to us by some nice gentlemen with gold-braided caps.

We will go once more to see what we left unseen, and then I turn my head toward Cambridge.

WASHINGTON, March, 1877.